


One for the Road

by Lumieres



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8892721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumieres/pseuds/Lumieres
Summary: “Please, take me away —“ Yuri’s text had been so abrupt that Otabek had to glance at his phone once more to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. (Or: Yuri is so focused on his career, he doesn’t notice Otabek slowly falling in love with him.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silent_masque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_masque/gifts).



It’s the heavy gaze at the end of the music routine that makes Otabek lift his head up, wondering who they belong to. When he catches the eyes of the younger boy with perfect blond hair that hung loose around his face, he simply lifts his eyebrows questioningly — trying his best to ignore his feathery heart in his chest.

“Is something the matter?” he asks in Russian. His expression is carefully neutral, in a way that no one else can ever figure out. Yuri’s face is shadowed, with the bright lights of the skating rink framing him. At this proximity, Otabek has to physically stop himself from looking Yuri up and down, taking in details he never thought he’d see up close.

Yuri lets out a huff of air and he sits down next to him. He props up his leg on one of the seats beside him and begins to unlace his skates. They’re close enough to touch, but Otabek doesn’t dare. It’s the secret glances he’s made and the silent vow he’s kept to himself all those nights ago. He’ll never say. A secret is worth a thousand lies and he feels sick for even thinking about this.

He tightens the laces around the skates and moves his foot carefully. His calves are sore and his back hurts from the exertion, but pain had become such an intimate bedfellow he hardly noticed it.

“ _Davai,”_ Yuri says, just as he’s about to step onto the ice. It catches him off guard and he extends his hands, just a little, to _pretend_ that he didn’t step onto the ice off balance. He turns ever so slightly and dips his head just a little to acknowledge the sentiment.

The Grand Prix has always been strange — even when it’s still only a couple of days away. They all have their allocated times to practice just before hand. It’s enough to keep him from feeling rusty and enough to make sure he peeks at the right time.

Though the audience isn’t around, the air is still slick with anticipation. He makes his way to the centre of the rink and looks down at the ice, staring at the smudgy reflection on white. With a deep breath, he falls into one of his mantras, “ _I am peace, I am calm.”_ Once he’s ready, he lifts up his head, waiting for the music to reverberate in his bones.

The way Otabek skates is the way he rides his motorbike. It’s slick and it’s _eloquent_. He wears it like a mask as he engages in a jump. The exact second he’s in the air feels like the exact moment he feels when he’s on the highways by himself, with the wind in his face and when he’s at peace. He lands with perfect poise, but his leg gives way and he winces at the mistake he’s made.

While others have left the rink, Yuri remains, watching each move with the precision of a detective, ready to piece apart a crime scene. Otabek tries his best to shift his attention away, turning as momentum leads him into a triple axel. The landing on this one doesn’t shift his centre-of-gravity and it’s easier to glide into another move.

When he finishes, his shoulders sag from the weight of _Yuri_ watching him. He makes his way to the edge of the rink, his coach talking to him. But he’s hardly listening because it’s everything he _knows_. His coach has the habit of breaking him until he’s nothing and then building him back up again, brick by brick. It’s very military, but it’s the tough love he’s gotten from everyone.

In the corner of his eye, he’s watching Yuri whose hand is perched in front of his lips, pensive. When they’re done talking, his coach looks at his watch and orders him to at least go out and have a good time. He can’t help but twist the words in his mind, wondering why _everyone_ wanted him to join parties, why everyone wanted him to hang out with people.

His good time is never the same as everyone else’s good time.

As he makes his way over back to Yuri, he furiously makes sure he doesn’t meet his gaze. He steps out of his skates and runs cold hands down his legs, massaging the tension from them.

“Don’t always trust what your coach says,” Yuri says. He still doesn’t make eye contact with Otabek, but Otabek doesn’t mind. It’s the first conversation he’s had with someone other than his coach in a while. It’s carefully guarded, not in the way that the other skaters talk to him — all smile and faux encouragements — but there’s something pure about it.

He runs the back of his hand along the sweat on his face. “If I don’t trust my coach, who should I trust?”

In his training gear, Yuri looks smaller than he is. His black tracksuit and team jacket cling to his petite frame. This is the second time he’s made it to the Senior Grand Prix, after his debut last year, but no one was surprised when they heard his name declared. Most people were surprised at Otabek Altin’s name being read out, surprised that he was still around and surprised that he still easily qualified.

But he’s used to this. Everything Otabek does is _quiet_. He comes and goes, like water lapping at the shore.

Some people even called him the _Dark Horse_.

Something cold gets pushed into his hand and Otabek’s surprise is audible. He looks — a little dumbly — at the water bottle in his hand. Yuri’s expression is still drawn serious but there’s a softness that tinges the edges of his eyes.

“ _Spasibo,”_ he says and takes a long drink. _Thank you._

Yuri stands up, his bare feet now sliding into some trainers. He moves with elegance, and he moves like he knows someone’s watching.

Otabek sighs to himself and lifts the water to his mouth again.

* * *

 

All of a sudden, the rink is suffocating. Otabek stands from the sidelines, his face hot with embarrassment. His last routine had been _terrible_. Especially for the Grand-Prix standards. He manages to morph his expression into _nothing_ , because that’s better than feeling something. He’ll keep stuffing his emotions until there’s nothing left, until he’s another robot, ready to perform again.

But when they announce his name for bronze, he moves to the ice automatically and hesitantly, like he didn’t _deserve_ this win. He stands beside Yuri Plisetsky whose glower looks out of place with the flower crown and on the other side, there’s a man who was mostly an unknown skater until today. The flowers in his hands make his nose itch, but he stands frozen in place — picture perfect and stoic as the public knew him.

Loud cheers, flowers being thrown. Everything is the same as always. It’s funny, when you’ve reached this point so many times, how _dull_ it all felt.

Once that's done, he hurries off from the stage and straight into the locker room. The pain in his feet registers and he’s scratching at the laces, quickly trying to free his feet. Others around him are also in the same amount of pain he is, with their legs stretched out, but they’re all still happy. They give him a huge smile that masks their hurt and saying, “Congratulations.”

It’s all clockwork. It’s all the same, year after year.

Until it’s not.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Yuri says in a hiss.

Otabek almost gazes straight over the younger boy and he turns to face him with as much confusion as he could muster.

A small hand grabs his dress shirt and he’s looking as bewildered as everyone else in the room.

“C’mon, tell me why you fucked up so many jumps?” Yuri says between gritted teeth.

Otabek has no answers for him. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re better than that. You should have come second,” he says. Then he tosses a glance over his shoulder and says a little quieter, “ _You_ should have almost beaten me. The base scores of your piece —“

“Well, I didn’t,” Otabek says hurriedly. He tries pushing Yuri’s hand away, but when he made contact with his small wrist, he stops, something inside of him turning off.

If Yuri noticed, he doesn't mention it. He just clicks his tongue in annoyance and moves away to the opposite side of the locker room, getting changed into something more comfortable again.

A couple of minutes is all it takes for the room to gain momentum again and chatter fills the air.

* * *

 

The text is short and abrupt. It feels like there _should_ be more, but there isn’t.

               >> You aren’t here. It’s dull.

Otabek sits on the edge of the building, with his legs dangling precariously over the barrier. He scaled the building in his own time, following the scaffolding as they try to fix up the old apartment block. What he enjoys most is the exhilaration that’s in his chest, surging like waves as he stands up so high. The feeling over exploring a place where people hardly goes is one of his favourites.

Marseilles, at this time of night, is _his_ secret.

The water reflects the lights like an oil painting, vivid and bright.

He angles the phone to catch the sky and city and sends the picture to Yuri.

               >> The fuck are you?

He takes his time answering. Yuri’s probably at the after party, surrounded by drunk people, surrounded by loud music. It’s something that Otabek usually avoids. It isn’t his scene. So he always makes sure he disappears before anyone can drag him along and before someone can talk him into it.

               >> One of the highest buildings.

               >> How’d you get there?

               >> Climbed.

               >> The _fuck?!?!_

* * *

 

Yuri is his secret.

Otabek, master of secrets, realises that with increasing panic. He’s fallen _too_ deep.

The next year passes and the new season begins in full swing. Training happens far too often and sometimes not at all. His calorie intake is painfully measured to a point where he wants to quit skating all together.

But if he quits, then his chances of bumping into Yuri grow slimmer.

If he quits, he’ll be a nobody once more.

And that part scares him the most. He doesn’t care too much about friends, only the close ones he can have deep conversations with as he thinks about the future. He's scared about leaving the skating world as a nobody — exactly how he entered it. So, with both Yuri and _that_ fear, he pushes himself to the brink every time he trains.

He trains until he falls asleep the moment his head touches his pillow. He trains until he hardly knows who he is _without_ training, without _skating_.

It's afternoon when he steps into the ballet studio in Moscow and stops suddenly, his heartbeat increasing, his mouth opening. He begins to sweat in places he never knew a person  _could_ sweat.

It's  _Yuri._

A billion swear words come to mind — Russian, _English_ and even _German_. He sucks in a quick breath, watching him lean onto the railing. He’s bent at an impossible angle and jealousy burns in Otabek’s stomach. But he knows that it’s only because Yuri is a lot younger than him. Flexibility fades with age.

The setting sunlight captures his eyes, a certain solemnity hardening his jaw. When he hears Otabek’s soft cough, he turns, expression softening.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here, old man,” Yuri says. Then, a heartbeat later, with slight annoyance, “Are you going to stand there like a goldfish?”

“Of course not,” Otabek says. He moves and set his duffle bag down. He catches the eye of a couple of ballet dancers who quickly look away at his intimidating glance. They’re far more elegant than he’ll ever be. But when they have _eloquence,_ he has _emotion_ that he only saves for the rink.

He laughs quietly to himself and stands beside Yuri, taking a couple of precautionary stretches. Then, suddenly, there’s a hand on his arm and force pushing him so that he dips slightly.

He turns quickly, eyes betraying the panic rising in his chest.

“Stretch like this,” Yuri says. “It will save you some heartache later.”

He grinds his molars together as Yuri pushes him down further, the stretch running up his left leg. It’s painful but he doesn’t want Yuri to know, so he squashes the cries of pain further down.

And then suddenly, he’s following Yuri’s lead as they go through a ballet routines that he’s memorised. Quick bursts of _battus_ for one circuit that slides into the _tour en l’air_.

“That was shit,” Yuri says, though Otabek isn’t sure if he’s talking about him or himself. “Again.”

So, he does it again. And then again, _and again_ until he’s sure his legs are going to tangle beneath him from fatigue.

“Your stamina is,” Otabek starts, “unbelievable.”

“You’re just old,” Yuri waves a hand at him. His team’s jacket is draped around his shoulders but he moves a lot slower than he did before. That’s when Otabek catches the pain as Yuri turns, trying to stretch his back.

Otabek angles his head. “How’s your back?”

Yuri’s eyes widen a fraction before his mouth settles into a pout. He shrugs. “As good as it’ll ever be.”

Otabek moves closer to him. Alarm bells ring in his mind.

This isn’t allowed.

In the box that he’s put Yuri in, the measured distance between them, _this,_ he gestures vaguely at what was happening, isn’t allowed. But he does it anyway. Tiredness chips away at his defences and he touches Yuri’s back, thumbs massaging the tension from his shoulders. Yuri stiffens significantly at first, but he then relaxes into the movement.

“When the fuck did you learn how to massage like this?” Yuri says, sighing in relief. He sags to the ground and Otabek follows, moving his hands down further his back. Touching _Yuri_ feels like a dream. One that he doesn’t wish to ever wake up from. Otabek stops massaging when he reaches the base of Yuri’s spine. He’s looking at the boy’s _ass_ now. Small… and strangely cute.

And during those thoughts, he panics. He skids backwards until his shoulder blades hit the mirror.

This is _not_ allowed. He should _not_ be doing this.

He stares in horror, watching as Yuri gets to his feet, stretching like a cat. Whatever moment had just transpired between them, he doesn’t seem to know or even care. He’s like that, in the years that they’ve known each other. He doesn’t notice anything outside of himself and sometimes, it makes Otabek extremely _sad_. The kind of sadness that only fully sinks into his bones in the early hours of the morning. The kind of sadness that makes him realise the heaviness of his unrequited feelings.

It tugs at his heart, pulls at it even. Like arrows being slung from fate and burying after each beat, waiting for it to give out. He reconstructs his face back to a neutral look, but panic threatens to burst at the seams.

“Dinner?” Yuri asks.

Otabek can barely find his voice, so he just nods.

* * *

 

Yuri leads the way, shouting orders as he holds Otabek by the waist on the back of his motorbike. He finds himself still stiff from the proximity, but he manages to wash it off by saying it’s practice pains.

“Left, you just missed a left!” Yuri says in his ear.

Otabek grits his teeth, wheels skidding as he makes a sharp U-turn and they’re travelling down the road again at a lightning fast speed that makes Yuri tilt his head back giddily.

“Here!” Yuri shouts all of a sudden. Otabek slams the breaks and rolls the bike into the nearest parking bay — which, in fact, is not a parking bay, but the side of the footpath. He untangles himself from Yuri and steps onto the pavement, pulling his leather jacket closer. Staring at the overly decadent building in front, he exchanges a glance with Yuri, wondering if they _both_ were terribly underdressed for this restaurant.

Yuri doesn’t seem to mind. He marches into the hotel lobby and barks an order that he wants to go to the sky restaurant. The door boy leads them to the lift and presses the button. The two women behind the counter whisper, a little too loudly — “ _Is that Yuri Plisetsky.”_

No one seems to notice Otabek.

Their shoulders bump in the elevator. Otabek decides to focus all his efforts on figuring out how the decorations worked inside the confined space. A small chandelier hangs from the top, casting an orange glow and the buttons are worn from years of pressing.

Yuri’s hand brushes past Otabek's and he grabs it when the door opens, leading him out. He blinks and then blinks again. The sensible part of his brain tells him to walk calmly but the other half makes his heart beat rapidly in his chest to a point where he _knows_ Yuri can probably feel it.

They’re holding hands.

And he feels like a _goddamn_ teenager.

“Ah, _Gospodin Plisetsky,”_ the waiter greeted with a strong smile. “A table for two tonight?”

Yuri nods. “By the window, please.”

They get swept away with special treatment. The table they sit at is in the corner, with enough privacy that they can speak as normally as they want to, but not enough that they’re completely hidden from the media. He tries his best to ignore the loud snaps and the flashes.

“They’re all bullshit,” Yuri says. He holds up a fork with an expression of anger. “The paparazzi. They never know when to leave you alone.”

With his other finger, Yuri flips the bird multiple times, until the pulsating bursts of light cease and they can enjoy their meal.

“What are they going to say about this?” Otabek whispers. He can barely breathe right now. Every inhalation leads to less air making its way to his body. He knows he’s having a panic attack, but he doesn’t want to reveal that he’s having one in Yuri’s presence.

“More _bullshit_. The fuckers,” he waves the fork about. “Anyway, I know good dishes. You don’t have any dietary requirements do you?”

Otabek shakes his head, for once glad about Yuri’s obliviousness. He turns to face the window when the waiter comes to take their order. Something about seeing a view like this in a place that you’re allowed to isn’t the _same_ as climbing one himself. It feels too normal. It doesn’t feel _right_.

This meal doesn’t feel right.

But it’s happening.

“Are you alright?” Yuri says finally.

Otabek gives him half a smile. “I’m fine.”

* * *

 

A little one too many beers later, the two of them stumble out of the hotel. Otabek knows he shouldn’t be driving, but he does it anyway. They’re both too drunk to care, faces flushed as alcohol rides through them.

He feels invincible. The world is _his_ and no one is going to take it from him. They giggle, pushing each other and holding each other close. It’s completely out of character but that’s the one thing about alcohol. It twists and turns your brain and it somehow makes you feel like you’re on top of the fucking world.

And, with Yuri standing next to him, he felt like he _was_ on top of the world.

“Where do you want to go next?” Otabek asks.

“Your turn,” Yuri says and he holds Otabek close. They’re close enough that if Otabek leans down just a little, their noses would touch. Common sense still lingers in his mind and he nods at himself, knowing exactly where he wants to go.

“My favourite place,” Otabek says. He takes a seat on the motorbike and lets it rumble to life. Soon, he finds himself in the heart of Moscow, finding a building that he’s scaled so many times. It takes a couple of turns and a couple of returning down roads that he’s already been down, but Yuri’s a little too buzzed to realise — or if he does, he doesn’t care.

Once they find the building, it looms above them. It isn’t one of the tallest buildings, but it’s one of the few with an external fire escape. Out of all the buildings Otabek has scaled, this one is _certainly_ the one of the easier ones.

They stand at the base. The buzz of alcohol has drifted off but it still exposes a bit of confidence he never thought he had. He nudges Yuri whose face has gone carefully blank.

“You scared of heights, Plisetsky?” Otabek asked.

The world seems to grow smaller as Yuri grows in size. “Course not, asshole. You?”

Otabek laughs quietly to himself. “The first parts easy. We’ll take the fire escape.”

He nudges Yuri to the side of the building, where the fire escape stands out, bright red against the brick. The last ladder hasn’t been extended yet, but with one jump, he manages to slide it down. Rattling loudly as it clatters to the ground, he winces. Beginning the climb, he gets to the top. When he turns around and sees that Yuri hadn’t followed, he peers from the first level, hands clutching the railing.

Genuine concern graces his voice. “Are you okay, Yuri?”

“Altin, you asshole,” Yuri mutters and he begins his climb.

It’s when they get to the _harder_ part of the climb, where the fire-escape ends and they need to scale the building a little, that he can see Yuri visibly shaking. Otabek lowers his voice and places a hand on Yuri’s face, cupping it so that his eyes angle to meet his.

“We don’t have to go up anymore,” Otabek says quietly.

Yuri shakes his head again.

“You’re clearly scared.”

Yuri shakes his head again. “I want to see what you see.”

Otabek sighs inwardly. He’s glad that he isn’t as buzzed as he was before. This last part is the most dangerous. One slip and the both of them can fall _easily_.

“Make sure you do exactly as I do,” Otabek nods. He sidles along the edge of the wall, hand holding the rooftop. As soon as they reach a corner of the building, a small foothold reveals itself. Otabek wedges his foot there and pushes up, sliding as he makes his way to the rooftop of the building. He turns back and leans over to see Yuri standing there, his hands white from gripping on too hard. Otabek holds out his hand and waits for Yuri to grab it, pulling him easily up onto the rooftop.

Yuri falls onto Otabek and suddenly they’re too close again. He can feel Yuri’s breath hot against his face and he swallows loudly.

“What are you looking at, asshole?” Yuri mutters. He gets to his feet and slowly makes his way to the edge of the building, looking out to see Moscow from a new angle. His expression shifts into pure amazement and he looks like a child on Christmas Eve. “I never knew Moscow could like _this.”_

Otabek shoves his hands into his pockets, smiling quietly to himself as he pulls out some nurofen. He swallows it dry, hoping that it will ease the ache in his legs and he rolls his shoulders, hoping to dispel the tension that seems to thicken around them.

“How long have you been scared of heights?” Otabek asks as he leans on the barrier between the empty space and him.

Yuri refuses to answer at first, which Otabek is completely fine about. But the boy beside him deflates and leans into him, his small body fitting against his like a puzzle piece.

“Always,” Yuri says. “How did you find this place?”

Otabek finds himself idly playing with Yuri’s long hair as they stare off into the distance, sharing words with each other.

“I like high ground… it makes me feel —“ he stops his sentence midway as he tries to find the right words.

Happy — ?

Safe — ?

At peace — ?

“Complete,” he finally decides. “To be able to see all of the world from a new perspective … is something very few of us get to experience.”

“It is beautiful,” Yuri nods.

Otabek agrees with him, looking out to the city skyline.

If he had been a braver man, he would have kissed Yuri then.

* * *

 

The years pass. Between their secret escapades, secret rides in the night to beaches that no one saw, the two of them trained harder and harder. Otabek trained for the adrenaline rush, the high of _winning_ something in each competition. He had fractured a couple of bones in the years, but it had been worth it.

And, to a lesser extent (at least that’s what he tells himself), he’s been training to meet Yuri at each competition. He’s found himself enjoying every time they’ve had alone and wondering if the feeling was ever reciprocated.

It probably isn’t.

But he doesn’t mind.

The Olympic year dawns upon them and Otabek drags his fingers across his feet, counting the blisters he’s gotten from all the hours of practice he’s put into this. For the first time in his life, he wonders what it’s like to get _gold_.

He humours the thought of snatching _gold_ from Yuri, being the one who knocks him off his titles. But as long as _Yuri_ is still skating, silver is probably the best he’ll ever get.

“Good luck, asshole,” Yuri says as he shoulders past him. Any other person would have ignored Yuri’s anger. His temper tantrums ran rampant but Otabek had grown used to them.

Otabek nods back. “Good luck to you.”

“I want to see you get a medal,” Yuri says. He’s in his skating gear, his hair scraped into a ponytail and he’s slightly taller now. Not as tall as Otabek, but still, he’s grown in between. Now at the age of twenty, Yuri is as much of an adult as Otabek.

He places a hand on his shoulder. “I expect the same from you.”

The team from France slides towards them and bumps their fists lightly.

“You’re up first,” they say, nudging Yuri.

Yuri nods to himself. He looks elegant in his getup. The sparkling shirt trails behind him as he walks, casting iridescent lights as he makes his way to the ice-rink. Otabek can see him hesitating as he takes a step onto the ice, but the moment he skates around twice, worry fades away and he’s back to being his usual self.

Watching Yuri skate is like watching a rose unfurl. It starts off small and unknowing, before each petal bursts to life with each growing second. A triple axel sends a burst of ice into the air, followed by a salchow. His leg spins him around and he pivots, hands flowing as elegantly as a swan.

Then he tries a quad in the second half of his performance. The moment Yuri is in the air, Otabek knows that it’s all off. His centre of gravity is off, the foot he took off on wasn’t in the right position. His momentum is too little to be able to pull this off properly.

He wants to turn away, but he can’t. He sees the tragedy happen as Yuri lands back on his other leg, slipping. He falls, and as he tries to get up, it isn’t _elegant_. Otabek sees his jaw tightening and his face is drawn from pain, but the _idiot_ still skates. Something’s wrong with his leg, Yuri knows it and _Otabek_ knows it.

He still skates despite it all, each jump becoming weaker and weaker. His eyes are prickling with tears and there’s little Otabek can do but nuzzle his chin to his chest.

Then, despite himself, he shouts to Yuri, “ _Davai! Davai!”_

If Yuri hears it, he doesn’t know. But his final combination is perfect. It might help him salvage some of the marks.

As soon as he finishes, Yuri rubs the tears from his eyes and does a loop around the rink. His back leg trails behind him, wobbly. He steps off, limping towards the changing room. Otabek wishes he can follow, but his performance is next.

Before Yuri completely disappears, he says under his breath, “Well done.”

And it’s the completely wrong thing to say.

He’s flinching, reeling in the thought that he actually just said _‘well done’_.

Yuri mutters. “Asshole.”

And soon, it’s his time on the rink.

* * *

 

Yuri’s sitting inside the changing rooms, with his leg propped against the chair. Purple bruises blossom his left leg and he has a couple of ice-packs angled strategically on the inside of his foot and his knee. He winces as he tries to move it, gingerly touching each wound.

“I’m never going to skate again,” he declares, a little too melodramatically.

Otabek sits next to him, ignoring the outburst. “How’s your leg?”

“What do you think?” Yuri replies, turning his head. The sentence is clipped short with anger and he runs a hand down his face. “That was the worst I’ve ever performed.”

“You did hurt yourself,” Otabek says, though he feels like he’s stating the obvious. Yuri’s face is still as white as a sheet and he still has the same look of disappointment radiating through him in pulses. “Did you pull a muscle?”

“Don’t know yet,” Yuri mutters. “Feels like I snapped my fucking leg though.”

Otabek looks at the wounded leg and knows that he’s exaggerating. They’re large bruises that would have thrown any professional ice-skater off, but it’s not enough to destroy his stellar future.

He pulls out a couple of chuppachups from his pocket and thrusts a lollipop at Yuri — knowing that cola flavoured _is_ his favourite. The younger man grabs it and unravels the wrapping. They clink the lollipops together as their own way of saying, “cheers”.

“You ever think that your best years are behind you?” Yuri asks around the lollipop in his mouth. The Olympics are now basically over for the two of them. They don’t need to count their calories as much anymore.

Otabek shrugs. “Don’t you keep beating personal bests?”

“I just don’t think anyone is as surprised about me anymore,” Yuri looks at his hands.

Otabek gave him one of those smiles you would give a child, “You’re no longer the young prodigy, Yuri.”

“I guess so.”

* * *

 

Otabek wins gold.

He _fucking_ wins gold.

And he’s elated

But he’s sad that Yuri doesn’t share the podium with him.

He takes the flowers and the medal with dignity, nodding at everyone in the audience. The bright lights make him heady and he can’t wait until he can go outside again.

It’s not until he tugs off his skates that he realises that he _actually_ won. It hits him like a hammer. The pain running up the arch of his foot acts as a reminder that he’s captured gold for Kazakhstan. At least people will finally know his name and not be hiding in the shadows of other far more talented skaters.

His team mates grin at him, nudging him, but he can’t help but see the sad sulking shadow of Yuri in the corner. The boy — no, the man — limps and grabs his duffel bag, swinging it over his shoulder. But before he can do anything about it, his teammates loudly declare that they should all _have_ an afterparty at the nearest bar to celebrate their win.

* * *

 

It takes a lot of words and aligned stars and planets for Otabek to figure out a way to leave.

They’re currently in Sydney, a place that he hasn’t quite decided if he liked or not. It’s harder to find rooftops here because it’s like everyone is watching all the time. One step out of line and the police are on your back. So instead, he rides his motorbike through the city, trying to find a place by the quay so that he can relax for a bit.

With a win as loud as gold, he can no longer determine if the excitement is _his_ or the people around him.

               >> _Please, take me away._

Yuri’s text had been so abrupt that Otabek has to glance at his phone once more to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

               >> Where are you?

He gets Yuri’s exact location, which, surprisingly, isn’t that far from where he currently is. Looking back and forth down the road, he does a U-turn and rides back for the Russian.

The man who stands on the footpath is glum. The sort of sadness that is all consuming and can be dangerous at times. Otabek shoves his hands into his pockets and leans on his rented motorbike.

“Not at the after party?” Otabek asks, cutting the silence between them.

“How the fuck can I go to an afterparty when I lost like that?” Yuri snaps. His tone then takes a sharp turn and he turns away, his cheeks flaring up. He holds up a bottle of unopened Vodka. “Just — take me away.”

“Got any places you want to go?”

“Somewhere nice.”

Otabek doesn’t know Sydney well enough to grant him that wish. So instead, he decides to take him where he originally was going to go. Just beneath the Sydney Harbour Bridge and just opposite the Opera House. There are few people here, each one holding each other tightly as they mumble words into their partner’s chest.

Yuri’s head is still against his back and he’s shaking in a way that Otabek knows means that he’s crying. He’s known Yuri for long enough now that any sudden shift in stiffness or certain facial expression meant that he could tell what he’s thinking.

He waits for Yuri to move from him and get on his feet, sniffling loudly.

“That was the best fucking routine we made as well,” he says. He kicks at the tuft of grass and moves down to the rocks slowly, sitting there as he stares off into the distance. The Opera House is lit up with the Olympic rings and people are rushing from side to side, trying to take pictures of the Australian landmark.

Here, Yuri sits on the rock with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

Otabek sits down on another rock, a careful arm distance away.

“There are other competitions,” Otabek says lightly.

“The next _fucking_ Olympics are another four years away. I’ll be ancient by then,” Yuri mutters.

“You’ll still be talented,” Otabek suggests.

Yuri shakes his head. “I’ve dreamed of winning gold here. And I fucked it up.”

Otabek doesn’t really know how to respond, so he looks over his shoulder. The silence they share is companionable as Otabek thinks about what he’ll be doing next. A life outside skating seems impossible. He’s invested so much time and effort in a week to stop now. But at some point, it’s all going to come crashing to an end. His skills will falter and he’ll be back in the depths of being a nobody. If he stops now, he’s at the height of his career, he’ll still be _gold_ and being golden is better than being no one.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Yuri says.

Otabek nods. “Shoot.”

“How long have you loved me?”

The question catches him completely off guard and he almost loses his balance on the rock. He’s trying to see if he’s joking, see if the alcohol is fuelling his speech but the bottle of vodka in Yuri’s hand is still unopened.

His heartrate increases tenfold and he tries to look somewhere else — anywhere else _but_ Yuri.

“C’mon, asshole,” Yuri mutters. “I mean, I didn’t really see until you sat next to me looking at my goddamn bruised purply bullshit of a leg.”

The answer still catches on his throat. He wishes for the ground to pull him down. He can’t even bare to listen to Yuri as the heat rises up and up his face. Swears reach his lips but he doesn’t say a single word, he just blinks back at him, scared and afraid that if he says _four_ years, Yuri is going to laugh and walk away.

Instead, Yuri moves closer to him, defying everything he’s expected. When his mind is as hazy and as clouded and _as_ panicky as _this,_ he can’t think properly.  

And before he knows it, the distance between them is closed and Yuri’s lips are on _his_ lips. Once the surprise is over, he moves into it, hungry and gasping. _More,_ he thinks to himself. _More._  

As soon as Yuri pulls away, Otabek _knows_ that it was Yuri’s first kiss.

Yuri is bashful and he looks at his hands. “Sorry —“

But before Yuri could speak again, Otabek's mouth smothers the words from his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know anything about ice-skating or even ballet, I'm sorry I tried my best. To Sulvie who links me stuff and then drags me down a path of destruction.  
> [ tumblr ](http://the-teacupshatters.tumblr.com/)  
> ~~[coffee?](http://ko-fi.com/A363H23)~~


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